


Behind Your Doors

by brutumfulmen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Pseudo Somnophilia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutumfulmen/pseuds/brutumfulmen
Summary: They have not spoken in decades but Crowley believed himself familiar with what Aziraphale’s silence asked of him.Crowley’s answer was another matter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 57





	Behind Your Doors

**1913.**

The front door was unlocked.

Sometimes it was not. During those times Crowley would tip his hat further down over his face to conceal from any curious eyes what lived within his own, and in the dark of night made the long trek back to Mayfair. Tonight it was unlocked, perhaps for his arrival, perhaps not, but with the careful raise of a hand he turned its burnished brass door handle. Some resistance, then Crowley heard the door unlatch and a sigh of relief rushed through him. He took one last look about the empty Soho, London streetway, where the only others meandering about this late at night were those in search of similar, unsavoury behaviour. None of whom noticed him, or cared to.

With that he stepped over the threshold into the bookshop, closed the door behind himself. Underfoot the old wooden planks groaned in the manner of a floor which had already settled in for the night and did not care for its sudden rude awakening by an unexpected guest. Crowley took no notice of it, and instead pocketed his dark spectacles before he hung his hat and coat upon the available coat rack where to his mute surprise one of his older Victorian-era longcoats still remained, the reason for which no inhabitant of the bookshop cared to examine. Not tonight.

Crowley’s eyes scanned around the quiet bookshop, pupils blew wide then narrowed back down to gossamer black. Not a book out of place, of course, but the untidy clutter that spoke of a well-lived in shop belied the attempt at keeping up appearances. On the long counter which hardly knew its true purpose as a cash register were stacks of papers and assorted trinkets, some new since the last time he was inside here. To another side filled with bookshelves, he picked out the addition of new books, and concluded it had been a productive five years indeed for at least someone. Crowley entertained the idea of a quick perusal into the bookshop’s cluttered backroom to examine further what all might have been added, or removed, from there. Long gone no doubt is his empty wine glass from the last time he was invited over all those years prior. He recalled how they discussed the rapid changes to the world happening during those times and who was to blame, his or his side.

Those twinkling blue eyes had caught obscured golden ones from over the rim of a half-filled wine glass before he merely replied perhaps both sides played their part. A comment to which Crowley, beholden, could not help but agree.

How long ago that seemed.

Instead of a stroll into that particular self-induced temptation, Crowley took a careful step deeper into the bookshop, then another when the wooden floors no longer protested his presence. They knew better than to forget who he was, though whether or not it was Aziraphale reminding them or Crowley’s growled insistence was better left for another time.

Time he did not have, unfortunately. Crowley grimaced, and rubbed at his temple to stave off a coming headache.

Even if he had not been able to see well in the dark Crowley knew his way, this mortal body’s muscle memory attuned to the dust and paper and shiver of a bookshop imbued with an angel’s continuous influence. So much into his heart this path ran its lines he could count how far it was to the base of the bookshop’s staircase - fourteen strides exactly - coupled with how many times he told himself he should not even be here. That number depended on how full the well of his guilt ran while walking over from Mayfair.

Tonight it seemed bottomless. Still, he was before anything else, a demon.

And so Crowley set a foot to the outside of a step beyond where the old wood warped, then began to climb. It was instinctual, the movements of his legs, their lift and press well thought out to ensure he did not make a board creak. To not alert any inhabitants of his arrival. Seemed like a habit, nowadays. Five years gone meant nothing to their kind, however acutely he felt them.

Without another thought on the matter Crowley reached the top of the stairs, turned left, and stood before a plain wooden door, unlocked or not. Behind it he knew lay a bedroom, occupied or not.

If this door was locked Crowley knew he no longer should leave, but must. Sometimes the bookshop’s front door was left unlocked by accident for such things can happen to anyone that lived on Earth. No one proved perfect, after all, regardless of their own insistence otherwise. Should that be the case Crowley would do as before and turn without anger or scorn, descend the staircase as silently as he came up, collect his coat and hat, then disappear back down the street. Again his hand reached towards another brass door handle, this one notably less burnished, almost new, upon contact in its subtle gleam through the darkness. Only his fingertips, lest he jostle too loud, caught the cool metal and began to turn.

Unlocked.

Certain he might want to take a breath at this time before proceeding, Crowley straightened up and inhaled slowly through his long nose until his rarely used lungs were fit to burst, unable to contain any more of the bookshop’s dusty, comforting scent. He let it rest in the hollow of his pulled taut chest, and upon his exhale it took every drop of tension from his body. The door was unlocked, he stood here now before it.

Crowley pushed the door open and stepped into the bedroom.

It was the same as it had been five years ago, Crowley noticed, where along the right side wall the curtains were pulled shut over the windows to engulf the bedroom in heavy darkness. Yet, Crowley caught that it had been much less tidy the last time he stepped foot in this room, as if to make the room more inviting, more easily navigated for a much taller person to stride through. Numerous stacks of books which once occupied the floorspace had been sorted into the two bookshelves along the left side wall. The piles of kerchiefs and assorted fabrics collected over the years no doubt put neatly away into the wardrobe.

The bed…

At last courage found him and Crowley slid his undoubtedly full-cornered golden eyes to the centre of the bedroom. There as the focal point was a modest-sized four post bed, fully laden down with ornately embroidered blankets, overstuffed pillows only a creature of utmost sensitivity required for comfort. Nestled within the middle of it all, in answer to that, was Aziraphale fast asleep.

Crowley let out a quiet rush of breath.

Were he permitted Crowley’s serpentine tongue might have flicked out into the warm, dry air to taste-scent such a vision. That, however, seemed too assumptive an action for him to argue after its place here, too strange despite all appearances. So Crowley kept the forked tip behind sharp teeth, ran it along the backs as he stood there and dwelled in the presence of Aziraphale. The night was deep and long as Autumn now eased into winter, but tomorrow he had an early start. It best be now before, before.

He shook his head, scattered the future like dust from his mind. Who knew what he was so afraid of, anymore.

Crowley bent down to undo his polished black boots and remove his trouser socks, set them by the bedroom’s closed door. On bare, black-scaled feet he walked across cold wooden floors, around the bed and stood at the side years ago he had claimed deep inside his wretchedly possessive heart as his own. A torturous claim, for who knew how many spent their nights on that side, ever close to Aziraphale since Crowley left like a thief in the night. How many came through those unlocked doors before Crowley in total. As he lingered in the dark like so many times before, Crowley considered it his at least for the nights he was here, in the memories he kept.

They would soon be all he carried.

Crowley rolled his shoulders and reached for his belt.

Aziraphale remained motionless, breathing deeply as Crowley worked his shirtsleeves’ hem up from his waist, pushed his dark trousers and pants down until they were shimmied around his narrow hips. Uncomfortable way to go about this but it afforded many things to them both, and so they remained on as did his shirtsleeves, as did his waistcoat. Cold air nipped into his bared flat lower stomach down to the long flush of his half-hard prick, but he ignored it for now. The dark spectacles were safely tucked into his breast pocket, over a heart too big for his chest in how hard it beat its message against bone and muscle. Hands stretched out to smooth along cool, clean bed covers as if no other but he touched them and it was a special event for his creeping into Aziraphale’s bed on these dark, lonesome nights.

 _Tell me to go,_ he recalled saying the first time he stood in the corner of the bedroom, a demand Aziraphale did not acknowledge save for the work of his throat, the curl of a white hand into the bed cover.

 _Tell me to stop,_ he had tried not long after, a hand ghosting from Aziraphale’s cheek to his chest, then further down to walk a path Crowley imagined countless times before, now there for his taking.

That first encounter, several years after their falling out in Saint James’s Park, Crowley had spent nearly the entire night with his mouth between those thighs before he fled back into London’s streets. He retreated to Mayfair horrified and confused by the liberties taken with Aziraphale. Unable to stop himself from wanting more, from returning time and again.

Crowley reached for the edge of the bed covering, and recalled almost fondly how the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s nightshirt had felt draped over his head. The tickle of his wispy curls on Crowley’s sharp cheeks all he ever cared to know as he licked his way through Aziraphale’s twitching, bitten-silent pleasure. How many times had Aziraphale experienced that before, Crowley might have wondered since, dared not to ask when he had gone through the beds of countless others without care since civilisation’s dawn. A hypocrite would not be another strike penned to Aziraphale’s already well-scratched card for him.

Still, he tore himself into equal parts with guilt at being the first and only, with jealousy over the possibility of not.

Why he nurtured those thoughts, that dull ache they caused deep in the hollow where a heart should be, despite this, Crowley refused to name. Perhaps he liked it, or the idea that this was normal, what they were doing together when Aziraphale left the bedroom door unlocked for Crowley.

Crowley pulled the bedcovers gently back, not far enough to uncover Aziraphale’s bare feet lest he catch cold from the winter bite beyond curtained windows, the sensitive creature he was. Before him he watched the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest underneath the thin of his cotton nightgown, his well-fed stomach’s curve exactly where Crowley imagined he might bury his face and breathe deep. Instead, Crowley let a hand pluck the hem of the cotton nightgown around Aziraphale’s calves, a thumb brushed along the delicate blond hairs there, resisted the temptation to plant a kiss upon both ankles. Little time tonight for Crowley to want more than allowed and deny himself in turn.

Besides, he knew what the ever so slight tension that made its etchings through the angel’s forehead meant, the twitch of smooth fingers on the cool bed covers that all but a serpent’s keen eye would miss. Other loves or no, this ability proved Crowley’s only. Aziraphale’s reluctance to let Crowley see or touch him beyond his hips, it was evident the very first time he slid the nightgown up past his knees, then higher, his hands smoothing along the plushness of his wide thighs to ghost the fine pale hairs over smooth skin. Further up their path, calloused fingertips caught on the narrow violet lines where Aziraphale’s pale skin stretched and dimpled in their need to make more room for Earth’s bountiful nourishment, for a variety sustenance Crowley took no small pride in having provided to the angel over these millennia. How much trust he gave Crowley even now with his nightgown past his wide hips and no further, a faith unheard of towards a demon, for him to not betray the limits Aziraphale placed upon them time and again, unspoken or otherwise.

Limits in the laughter they shared, the bread they broke over candlelight and the wine they drank from bottles swiped off unobservant tables. The reaches across the aisle Aziraphale and Crowley never quite met halfway on.

Crowley would choose those any day. Would choose Aziraphale in his life over it all.

Which is why instead of leaving like he should, Crowley slithered his long body into the bed close to Aziraphale, watched the angel’s face for any signs he intended to awaken from this charade and free them both. When the angel remained still, not a twitch in his upturned nose or along his brow, Crowley slipped a hand underneath one knee, let his thumb caress the delicate skin, and folded it open. He reached and did the same with the other leg, spread Aziraphale wide for his and the night’s view.

They have not spoken in decades, not since Aziraphale left him in Saint James’s Park and threw into the water a scrap of the most vulnerable Crowley ever allowed himself to be. The conversation continued on regardless of this stalemate each time Crowley crept up the bookshop’s stairs, slithered into the angel’s bed and between his thighs. He learned how Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed red whenever Crowley peeled away the bed covers and that nightgown and let out a quiet hiss he could not contain. Aziraphale spoke to him in this resolute silence, his concession to Crowley’s greedy hands lifting and spreading and his body thrusting and coming.

His touch was practiced between Aziraphale’s thighs, through the pale curls covering Aziraphale’s sex down into molten warmth, his mouth sure on its trek from Aziraphale’s neck to his collar to the soft give of his chest where a nipple pebbled underneath the cover of that ridiculous nightgown. Tension flickered in Aziraphale, but Crowley knew better than to look up. Aziraphale was asleep, watching to see if those eyes would open yielded nothing, but the rest of him said plenty. And like always, unable to help himself Crowley pulled away a bit to see what Aziraphale responded with so far. There it was, the high flush bloomed up past Aziraphale’s high collar to warm his round cheeks and dampen his brow, the shallow breaths from slightly parted lips. Between his legs where Crowley’s fingers continued to indulge, tiny fissures were forming in the angel’s impressively rigid control, and were they different people, Crowley would have encouraged him to wrap those thighs around his hips, to let free his moans.

Crowley watched Aziraphale from the dark. He’s watched Aziraphale for so long, never grew tired of what he saw.

Already painfully hard, dripping sticky and clear across the damp curls between Aziraphale’s thighs, Crowley shivered in anticipation of what he was about to do. A hand gripped himself and angled his cock’s thick tip between Aziraphale’s plush labia to where he softened in achingly wet invitation. Five years without, had Aziraphale missed him, too?

Mattered not. A shift, his hands found Aziraphale’s hips and Crowley pressed himself in, imagining the bitten back groan he let out covered Aziraphale’s quieter moan. The pace started slow, it always did, and for a quiet stretch of time, Crowley allowed them both to believe things between them were fine. This, together, was how they were meant to be. Underneath him Aziraphale did not move save for the uncontrolled twitch in his limbs, the clench of his cunt around Crowley when he began to rock deep into the angel, pressing tight up towards his clit.

Crowley huffed following a shudder from the angel, the short burst let into the too-warm air between. His shirt stuck to his heaving chest with sweat, his damp trousers dug uncomfortably around his hips as he pistoned into the docile creature beneath him faster and harder. Fuck, he had wanted this to last so much longer but he was so close already, unable to stop himself. Mercifully the exquisite feel of Aziraphale around him, the tension lined in Aziraphale’s jaw, those blond-lashed eyes squeezed tightly shut replied back with the same. A short breath slipped past Aziraphale’s lips, then another, as if he struggled to keep himself fully reined in, Crowley thought a touch this side of bitter, but not enough to snuff out the fire of arousal in his chest threatening to burn him alive. Aziraphale whimpered, breathing sharp and fast through his nose that made Crowley’s mind halt at the one sound Crowley has heard from Aziraphale all these decades past. Through the blaze of impending climax Crowley felt Aziraphale’s soft chest push up towards his own, a pulsing deep inside Aziraphale and he knew the angel was about to come. Almost there but needing Crowley’s help. He distantly remembered to keep moving as the rippling of Aziraphale’s cunt squeezed tight around his achingly hard cock.

There, lying underneath him and through the dark Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s face contorted in barely contained pleasure then slacken into bliss upon his climax, plush thighs tensing and easing against Crowley’s driving hips. Fingers twitched against the bed covers, the work of his flushed throat a pale veil over his hammer-hard pulse that Crowley had caused, the work of his wet, warm body rewarding them both as Aziraphale’s breath shuddered out of him and his cunt eased its vice around Crowley, then clenched again until his vision blurred.

Nothing has ever felt like this.

What would Aziraphale in all his imperfectly perfect splendour sound like, Crowley could not help in wondering as the base of his spine went molten, the pressure gone too much to bear as his cock pulsed in a desperate reply to Aziraphale’s still twitching, clenching body. Would Aziraphale moan and plead for Crowley to go slower, or faster, deeper, gentler, hands gripping at Crowley’s back to hold him close? Spread legs unsure if they wanted to rest and be restless along the tangled covers or anchor Crowley between them, as if Crowley had anywhere else he wanted to be.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed out, desperately in love with nowhere to set it down. A sharp intake of breath came from between clenched teeth, though whose mattered not in the end.

Would he ever call Crowley’s name? How long it has been, how very long, since he last heard it from the angel. Nothing compared to Aziraphale’s voice, even in the silence that Crowley filled in for them.

It was too much, speaking the angel’s name into the quiet, the only reply Aziraphale’s skin shivering against his own. Pleasure rolled through Crowley and his pressed desperately closer into the cradle of Aziraphale’s thighs, unable to feel anything but wet warmth. Once, twice, with a shudder that rattled every rung of his spine Crowley thrust into Aziraphale, held himself there and then he was coming, bottom lip bitten hard to keep his moan locked up as he released long, broken spurts of come inside the angel with each throb of his oversensitive cock. He kept moving, desperate nudges up between the angel’s thighs pushing himself as deep as he could as his orgasm swept through him, then drained every drop of energy through his limbs, out his fingers clenched into the wrung bed covers on both sides of Aziraphale’s head.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley rasped again into the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck, arms trembling in their attempt to keep him from collapsing onto the angel, eyes burning but he refused to blink it away.

He deserved better than this, they both did. To confront their problems like two immortal beings who have walked and worked astride, laughed and cried together before an audience of one for more years on Earth than first thought possible. Not to have the angel offering his body up in lieu of an apology to a simple conversation Crowley would go back and on his knees apologise for if only to have Aziraphale in his life the way he used to be. Demon or no, sneaking into a bedroom late at night to pour salt in Aziraphale’s wounds was never part of the Arrangement.

Nor were Crowley’s misplaced feelings, his affections unwanted save for when Aziraphale had plausible deniability.

It was why his clothes remained on, and why he had never spoken since that first night, until now. Fitting it would be tonight he breached this part of their Arrangement.

Crowley dropped his cheek to press against Aziraphale’s and his short pants of laboured breath warmed the space and skin there. Open your eyes, he wanted to ask into the delicate shell of the angel’s ear, but knew neither of them could handle the consequences of it should Aziraphale even comply.

Which left only one option, and it is why he came here tonight. One last time.

Another moment bled into another, but soon Crowley knew he had to leave. The conversation over. Muffled a grunt into the pillow beside the angel’s still head as Crowley pulled his softened, sticky cock from the angel, trying not to imagine how his spend dripped from between those thighs. Resisted the urge to crawl down there and watch, spread Aziraphale’s delicate labia open and worship him deep into the night with Aziraphale’s sighs and gasps the answers to the conversation Crowley shared with his body.

None of that was his for the taking, but was it ever?

Crowley crawled off of Aziraphale, tugged his sweat-soaked nightgown down those relaxed thighs, and pulled the covers back over him. His hands did not snap either of them clean, like he usually did, but instead they went to his trousers, they went to his belt, all while his eyes looked down at his scaled feet. He turned, bent to grab his trouser socks and boots, put on one then the other with slow motions, feeling like it was the first he ever did so.

All this time Aziraphale’s silence asked Crowley for something, and only now did Crowley have an answer.

He straightened, but did not turn around. “Take care, angel.”

In the very last moment the door clicked shut Crowley swore he heard the slightest hitch of Aziraphale’s breath, as though the last chance before a sob, but it was done. Crowley was as well.

Down the stairs he went, long legs sore from his exertions, arms steady as they delved into his coat, fitted like a glove to the dampened shirt on his body. Not a tremble betrayed in his fingers as he unfolded his dark spectacles back to their rightful place high atop his long nose. In a moment of weakness he planned to later blame on physical exhaustion, Crowley lingered there, the empty bookshop’s spectre as he had been the haunt of Aziraphale’s bed. What good was it for him to stand there and do little more than hope beyond reason that the hitch in breath would lead to a rise of those lungs, spur a blood rush to limbs now moving a soft body from a bed and down the stairs after him.

Hands upon his chest, his face. Asking him to stay.

It was not to be, and his company there in the moment was nothing but his own quiet breathing in the dusty night air of an angel’s earthly sanctuary, its scent much to his surprise now brackish with longing. His lungs were what filled, then, his aching heart was what rushed blood to limbs which moved Crowley out of the bookshop.

And locked the front door behind him.


End file.
